


Round the Twist

by TRASHCAKE



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Donghyuck is the best character in this fic, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rich DJ Johnny, Starving Artist Mark, bad attempts at flirting, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRASHCAKE/pseuds/TRASHCAKE
Summary: Mark's Big Move to the Big City comes with One Big Problem: his neighbour is an insufferable idiot, and he won't leave Mark alone.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 67
Kudos: 597
Collections: Mark Lee Birthday Bash 2020





	Round the Twist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyucksicles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyucksicles/gifts).



> There are prompts that run away from you and then there's this fic. I know it was supposed to be set in New York, but I'm not American and didn't want to write it wrong;;;; hope you all like this nonsense!

All things considering, Mark’s life could be worse. It could be better, and that’s an understatement. But it could also be much, much worse. He has a job, he has a dream and he has three whole dollars in his bank account.

Now, as he fumbles with the lock with one hand and the box he holds in the other, he has a house, too. It’s not his house, technically. Starting next month he’ll be paying rent, not a mortgage. But it’s a roof over his head and he saw no black mould on the ceilings during his inspection, and that’s honestly more than he could ask for.

“Look at you, growing up,” Taemin sniffles. He pushes past Mark and into the apartment, a slightly heavier box in hand. All but dumping it on the floor in the entryway, he places his hands on the small of his back, surveying the interior of Mark’s new apartment. “Baby’s first house, I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s not my first house, though,” Mark is quick to point out. He’s fresh out of university, sure, but he’s been living in sharehouses the entire time. His old housemate even helped him pack his things, even though he was busy getting ready to move on, as well.

“Yeah, but it’s the first house you’ve had since I met you, therefore it feels like baby’s first house,” Taemin smiles at him. Mark doesn’t have the heart to remind him that he’s known Taemin a grand total of two weeks.

He’s made the move from the comfortable familiarity of the suburbs near his university, to a place in a big, new city he’s never been to before. His original plan was:

1\. Find hotel  
2\. Spend most of his savings on said hotel as he searches for work and an apartment  
3\. Hope he finds one or both before his money runs out

Turns out his cousin knew a guy who lived with another guy in some vague _I’m not sure if they’re dating but I’m also too afraid to ask_ kinda situation, and that’s how Mark has ended up sleeping on Taemin and Jongin’s shared couch for a fortnight.

They’ve been nothing but helpful, and Mark has been nothing but thankful as a result. Jongin’s work has him passing a “Help Wanted” sign at an art shop within a nearby mall, and Taemin knows enough about the rental market that he’s helped Mark find a good place within his very meagre budget.

It’s furnished, too, which saves even more of Mark’s money. He’s hit the jackpot with the little apartment that they’ve found. It’s not much, but it’s home and it’s better than anything Mark could have found on his own.

“I don’t know how to repay you guys,” he says, earnestly.

Jongin snorts, bringing up the rear with box three of many. “Then don’t,” he says. Taemin pats him lightly on the ass as he places the box with the rest of them. Mark doesn’t ask, because it might be too late to.

“We have a lovely new art piece for the wall of our lounge, I think that’s enough payment,” Taemin wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and navigates him through the strange set of double doors to his apartment. “It could be worth millions one day.”

The reason for Mark’s move is simple: he’s an artist.

More chance to make it big when he’s in an area with a higher population. Armed with a city permit to perform on certain streets and the classic ennui of a freshly graduated fine arts student with no desire to go into restoration or teaching, Mark sets out on his big adventure.

“I don’t think it will,” Mark shrugs. It jostles Taemin’s hold on his shoulder, but he tightens his grip. Jongin with his infuriatingly long legs and towering height, joins in to ruffle Mark’s hair. “I’m glad you think so, though.”

Bringing his belongings from the back of Jongin’s car and into the apartment takes more time than it should, considering how little Mark actually owns. His personal belongings are limited, but the copious amount of boxes they’ve managed to Tetris into Jongin’s old Toyota are filled mostly with art supplies.

Various traditional mediums, a box that contains the mid-range Wacom tablet he bought when he went through a digital art phase. Mark is more paint than human, multicoloured splashes marring his clothes and seeping into his soul.

Boxes eventually pile up in the living room at Mark’s request, claiming that he’ll rearrange and sort during his downtime, wanting to set his new home up perfectly in his own time, rather than rushing for the convenience of a helping hand.

Taemin and Jongin are fine with it, and decline Mark’s offer of pizza as thanks for the help.

“Date night,” Taemin offers as an excuse, while Jongin mumbles some sort of protest at the phrase.

They offer twin waves over their shoulders as Mark sees them out, with Taemin slipping his hand into the back pocket of Jongin’s jeans as they saunter off in the direction of their car.

Mark leans against the doorway and sighs.

He really should have asked.

\------

Mark learns a few key things about his apartment and the three-storey building it’s located in. First of all, his apartment is half of a whole. So desperate to find a place without visible water damage in the ceiling, he ignored the suspiciously narrow hallway and the strange double door system at the entryway.

The door leading to the hallway isn’t the door that leads to his apartment. A small landing acts as a buffer space between doors one and the twin doors within it. Confusing, yes, but something Mark thought was just part of the building’s structure and design.

It turns out that Mark is completely wrong.

The apartments are quite spacious, and some enterprising, money-hungry landlord has split the entire place down the middle. Mark occupies one side and some faceless, unknown tenant taking up the other. Thankfully, the house originally contained two separate bathrooms, meaning that Mark, while technically sharing his house, doesn't have to share a goddamn shower with a stranger.

It's part one of Mark Lee's Two-Part Oversight Issue, the bed he's financially made and now has to gingerly lie in. He picked his house without thinking about the semantics. Pressed for time and overstaying his welcome, Mark has moved into the first house he's found that isn't potentially life-threatening. It's fine. He's fine. A narrow hallway never hurt anyone.

The other issue is that Mark, in all his panicked house moving planning, forgot to measure the distance between his new, very humble abode, and his equally as humble job at the art store.

Turns out the mall that's within walking distance of Jongin and Taemin's apartment is approximately one bus and one train ride away, totalling in approximately forty five minutes of travel time each way.

It's fine. Mark is fine. He'll cope. Find some sort of podcast to listen to during his commute.

Oh God.

Mark is not fine.

He's not coping with this whole ~living alone~ thing all that well.

It's been exactly two days.

\------

Mark wakes up the morning of day three with the telltale symptoms of a migraine already starting to form. He's used to them, which means he's able to spot and combat what's going on before the idea of light and anything scented becomes a problem.

Downing his painkillers and anti-nausea tablets with a little too much water, he tucks both sets of medication into his messenger bag as he starts the arduous trip into work.

His current state either caused or exacerbated by the newest conundrum of Mark's life: his entire building is filled with night owl party animals. The people he _technically_ shares a house with like to play their horror movies loud and scream along with the protagonist.

The separate apartment to Mark's left think that Tuesday night is an amazing time of the week to hold a party.

Mark's bedroom walls have been pulsing and vibrating right along with the pain in his temples, and the only thing keeping him from throwing a temper tantrum at their door is the fact that he's literally just moved in and doesn't feel like upsetting the status quo quite yet.

If it's an ongoing issue, Mark may have to invest in some sort of noise-cancelling headphones so he can play calming ocean noises on loop while he attempts at catching a good night's sleep.

(Noise cancelling headphones require money that Mark _really_ doesn't have at the moment, so he hopes that the Tuesday-slash-Wednesday house party of noise and doom is just an anomaly and not a frequent reoccurrence)

(He's not holding his breath)

The arduous morning commute gives Mark ample time to stress over his empty email inbox, and lament over the fact that yet another day has gone by without a sale on any of his art-based online stores.

Even the Haikyuu fanart he drew during university at an attempt to sell out hasn't had any hits, but Mark chalks that up to being a rarepair shipper rather than anything else.

Mark sighs, gets caught up in his own ennui, nearly misses his stop.

He's moved so far from home in search of a change.

All he can do is hope that it comes sooner, rather than later.

\------

"You have no retail experience, but you've got plenty of art experience."

Mark has already done one training shift with the owner of the store, allowing him some very limited knowledge of how the registers work and an even vaguer sense of company policy. The owner does not seem to care much about what goes on inside his shop, leaving most of the daily ins and outs of his sole full-time employee.

Donghyuck is a year younger than Mark, runs the store with something akin to nonchalance and has some very interesting theories about how the owner can afford rent in a popular mall when they have so few customers.

"It's money laundering, drug dealing or a tax break," he supplies, taking a sip of his excessively large iced... something. Always needing to fiddle, Donghyuck pins and unpins the rainbow flag attached to his lanyard. "Sometimes we get packages that we're not allowed to open, and some scary looking dudes come in to collect them. I've learnt not to ask, nor to flirt."

"They don't respond well?" Mark guesses. He's known Donghyuck for approximately four hours and he's already shaping up to be Mark's favourite person he's met in his new city home. On his lunch break, he brings Mark a matching large cup of iced something, and Mark has been sipping at it while suppressing the caffeine jitters.

"Quite the opposite," Donghyuck says with a sigh. "I don't know how serious they are about the proper way to dispose of a body, nor their willingness to leave their wives for me, but I've learnt to just stay quiet when they come in."

Mark blinks at him, waiting for the punchline to a joke that never comes.

"You're being serious," he says after a moment. Donghyuck continues to fiddle with the assortment on pins on his lanyard. Mark wonders if he brought them in from home and if Mark should do the same.

"Completely."

"Well then."

"Indeed."

Their gazes catch and the two hunch over in a fit of giggles, laughing about nothing and yet finding everything funny at the same time. They're a good match, and Mark now understands why their shared boss has also given them shared shifts, mentioning something about them being cut from the same cloth.

"You've been eyeing my pins," Donghyuck says, once he's recovered from the fit of giggles and downed half of his Something. "The person you replaced used to sell them sometimes, so I've got a collection of stuff sitting under the counter."

"I don't have to pay for them?"

"They left it here without any contact details," Donghyuck shrugs, shaking the little black tin in Mark's direction. The paint is peeling from the outside, but the interior contents are an absolute goldmine.

Mark's eyes light up as he pours through the collection, pulling out a selection of things that he feels define him. A bisexual flag, some Haikyuu pins, a DnD themed keychain he pockets for his old housemate, who tried and failed for years to get Mark into the game.

"Wait," Donghyuck all but shoves him out of the way as Mark pulls his spoils from the tin. "There's Haikyuu shit in here?"

Mark nods as he fiddles with the underside of his Nekoma pin. Donghyuck all but screeches as he manages to find an Oikawa keyring underneath it all, attaching it to his staff card with pride.

"God, I fucking love fanartists," he sights, watching as the light glints over the holographic film of his keychain.

"You like Haikyuu?" Mark ventures. Their talks have been friendly but all work-based small talk. He can see the potential for friendship with Donghyuck, and hopes a shared love of sports anime is the bridge that helps form one.

"Do I ever," he breathes, then launches into a discussion of the manga's final chapter.

Mark smiles to himself and joins the conversation.

Day seventeen in a new city.

Maybe things aren't so bad after all.

\------

Mark's hobbies include art, embarrassing amounts of time spent binge-watching anime and the unfortunate habit of lying to himself.

Things are bad. Mark is cold. Mark's old town was not cold enough to warrant a good coat so he's stuck in winter in just hoodies and sweaters.

It's absolutely not enough to keep the winter chill at bay.

But if Mark is anything, then Mark is determined. He sets up his drop sheet and paints on his own designated patch of sidewalk, ignoring the cold as he begins to paint.

His medium of choice is spray paint, though he's not one of those people cool enough to start experimenting with the medium due to teenage rebellion and a tagging phase. No, Mark's love of aerosol is a university thing, and he's never touched paint to private property on purpose.

Stencils and shapes and tape, all forming layer upon layer until Mark pulls away and finally reveals what his muse has dictated. It's usually space-themed; galaxies and supernovas in vivid colour, completed with a few flicks of paint to represent the stars surrounding them.

Mark has been obsessed with the medium and the creative process since he saw someone do something similar on a Facebook video, autoplayed to him between Five Minute Crafts clickbait at three o'clock in the morning.

"Why the moon?"

Art like his is partly performance-based, so a small crowd gathers as Mark works. A set of appreciative noises and a spattering of applause greets him as he makes the final reveal. One spectator waits around with him as the piece attempts to dry.

"I like space," Mark shrugs, gingerly removing the masking tape from the border of his work. It too is space-themed, washi tape adorned with cartoon stars and moons. "Used to want to work in astronomy, before I realised I was better at art than math."

"So you paint them instead?" the spectator asks. He's relatively young, probably a few years older than Mark himself. He rummages through his pockets as he speaks, looking for spare cash. "That's kinda cute."

"Uh, thanks?" Mark accepts his money in exchange for a few small prints of his previous work, scanned into a digital existence thanks to his former university's incredible printing system. The spectator laments that Mark’s piece has yet to dry, otherwise it might find a home in his own apartment. 

Still, despite the lack of sale on his big piece, the cash thrown his way by a kind stranger is enough to cover the cost of his transport home and a burger along the way. Mark tries not to feel dejected; success isn’t always immediate, and he’s well aware that he’ll have to work for it. 

A boy and his dreams, built on a section of sidewalk in the cold. 

It sounds like the start of a great origin story, or the depressing ending to a tale never told.

\------

Mark sticks with his stint on the street. His permit allows him to set up whenever, so long as another performer hasn’t taken the space. In which case, Mark is allowed to find somewhere else along the section of approved footpath, but the corner he’s chosen is best for his craft. 

Always with a fresh breeze to help with ventilation, it means that Mark isn’t potentially endangering spectators who stop and watch him work. The surrounding streets are lined with tall buildings, essentially forming a wind tunnel that helps shift fumes and stray drops of paint away from people. 

It’s the perfect spot, and Mark finds himself setting up far more often than he initially thought. It’s equal parts an increase in creativity and the fact that he’s too broke to do anything else. His shifts at the art store cover his rent and bills, but only the basics. The landlord offers Mark internet connection as an added cost, and while it’s cheaper than paying a bill on his own, it’s still too much for Mark to afford. 

He hasn’t saved enough money for a television, and without a connection to the internet, all Mark’s computer is good for is drawing. 

Which, he figures, if he’s doing, he may as well get paid for it. 

Mark braves the cold more often than not, spending his hard-earned cash in an equal split of more supplies (thankfully, now available to him with a staff discount) and whatever cheap food he can find at the local grocery store. 

He’s sick to death of instant ramen and budget brand oats, paired with whatever food Mark can sneak from Donghyuck during their shared shifts. He briefly entertains finding a third job, but realises quickly that anything that wouldn’t interfere with his day job would take away from his art, and that’s not something he’s about to let happen. 

Leaving the safety of home in the attempt to kick start his career is meaningless if he doesn’t focus on the task at hand. And yeah, maybe he needs to better his diet a little, but the whole _starving artist_ thing suits his aesthetic. 

Plus, on the upside, he’s leaving each session with a little more money with each added art piece. He’s run out of prints, but older one of a kind works still sell, and they’re worth more. Sometimes people tip him as he works, as well, and Mark blinks in surprise the one time he finds a fresh fifty dollar bill amongst the smaller denominations. 

It’s not much, but its a start. 

(Mark buys himself some cheap meat as a reward, and nearly cries as he shovels it down)

\------

The general consensus of Mark’s apartment building seems to be that the night is always young, even if the hands of the clock clearly dictate that it’s morning. He stumbles home later than expected, a Saturday night that has him painting for drunk patrons who pause in their barhopping to coo excitedly over Mark’s work. 

There’s a phone number alongside his tips, and someone actually bought the piece he was working on. He’ll ignore the former, not quite sure where exactly it came from. A gamble he’s not quite ready to take, the digits written on nondescript paper could belong to one of the pretty girls on their way to the club, or the sleazy old man who stood just a little too close to Mark as he worked. 

It’s five o’clock in the morning, and Mark doesn’t have a shift scheduled until Monday. His plans include a shower before the hot water is gone, and sleeping until he’s awoken by hunger, probably sometime in the afternoon. 

Mark, as it turns out, is not the only resident on the way home from a big night out. Well, he assumes it’s a resident. He knows the passcode for the door, and seems aware that the buttons of the ageing elevator need a sharp jab in the right spot in order to work. 

But the person who joins him looks completely out of place in an apartment building that has seen better days. Mark and his neighbours live the aesthetic of Thrift Shop Chic, the only new additions to their wardrobes found during affordable sales at fast-fashion outlets. But this guy is head to toe in brands that Mark has never even dreamed of affording. 

They could be fakes, he thinks for a moment. An attempt to flaunt money he doesn’t have. But Mark knows enough unapologetic hypebeasts to know what’s real and what’s not, and the quality of those Balenciaga sneakers look too good to be a recreation. 

The guy hits the button for the third floor, meaning he’s one of four— technically five, considering Mark’s split apartment situation— people who live alongside him. 

“Are you lost?” 

A tired Mark means a Mark who lacks a filter, and it gets him into trouble on occasion. Most notably, when he shoves his own foot into his mouth and antagonises his neighbour, who, as far as Mark knows, has done nothing wrong. 

“Aren’t we all?” his neighbour hums. He checks the time on his phone, the most recent overpriced Apple release, protected by a Vetements case. “In life, you know? There’s no real meaning, we just wander aimlessly and without a purpose.” 

Mark introspectively retracts any former guilt he felt about antagonising the guy. 

“You’re kidding, right?” The elevator is in motion, but the ride is small. The three floors feel like eternity. 

“Not at all,” he says, far too seriously for someone who smells like expensive cologne and a bottle of whiskey. “The point of life is that there is no point, that’s what I’ve figured out. Dreams and goals and shit like that? It’s all meaningless.” 

Mark is too tired to have fake deep conversations with drunk dudes in elevators. He barely has the energy to keep his eyes open, let alone call anyone out on their bullshit. He just hums, a silent declaration that the conversation is over. 

He’s a little annoyed to say the least. This dude doesn’t know him, but has somehow managed to insult Mark to the core of his very being within a few minutes of conversation. He is nothing but his dreams and ambitions, while this half-drunk stranger has the nerve to call it all worthless. 

The elevator doors open with a creak and a scrape, his neighbour allowing Mark to exit first with a flourishing gesture of his hands. “After you, cutie,” he says. 

Mark rolls his eyes. Insulting one moment, flirting the next. What a wonderful human being.

Turns out that his neighbour is quite literally the person who lives next door, the fortunate soul who has an entire apartment, not the person sharing Mark’s weirdly set up split housing scenario. Which means the annoying elevator guy and the wannabe DJ who has midweek house parties are the same exact person. 

“I’m Johnny,” says his neighbour. He’s managed to get his door slightly open, revealing a sliver of the interior that Mark can see out of the corner of his eye. Stylish, modern, renovated. “It was nice meeting you.”

Nothing like the rest of the borderline dilapidated apartments that make up the rest of the building. 

“Mark,” he replies, tersely. The first locked door sticks, and Mark’s flimsy key snaps off as he attempts to turn it. 

Wonderful. 

“I, uh,” Johnny continues, oblivious to Mark’s struggles and the fee he’s going to have to pay in order to get his door fixed. “Sometimes I have people over, you know? We’re pretty chill.” 

“I know,” Mark says. He gestures to the interior of his apartment, where hopefully the second set of doors are more cooperative. “I hear you.” 

“Sorry,” Johnny replies, smiling like he’s not apologetic in the slightest. “If you ever hear us and want to come over, just like, knock or something. You’re welcome whenever.”

“Thanks.” 

Mark has been raised to be a polite young man, thankful even for invitations that he declines. It’s almost instinctual to thank Johnny for the offer, but the preceding scoff and flat tone of his voice are on purpose. He has no intention of spending any time with his neighbour and his loud friends. 

“I’ll hold you to that!” 

The door slams loudly behind him as Mark finally manages to get into his apartment. He hopes that his response is both obvious and noted.

\------

Mark starts to notice things about Johnny. First of all, he’s absolutely a night owl. While Mark’s schedule is slowly changing, when he’s got an opening shift at the art store he _does_ appreciate a few extra hours of shut-eye. 

Secondly, he seems to do some sort of music production as a hobby. The walls are thin and Mark can hear the telltale sounds of a song in its early stages, going from a simple melody to a complex beat over the course of a few hours. 

In any other situation, Mark would find the whole situation nostalgic, or maybe even something that causes some form of homesickness. His old housemate was similarly inclined, making songs and remixes in his free time and whenever his biochem prac reports became a little too much. 

The difference between them is that Chris is not only better, he also knew how to use a pair of goddamn headphones. 

Okay, so perhaps Mark’s dislike of his neighbour is affecting how he feels about his music. He’s probably very talented, but he’s also playing around with a repetitive snare sample at three o’clock in the goddamn morning, and Mark only has another three hours of sleep before he has to get up for work. 

It’s equal parts noise, and the irritating familiarity of the song that Johnny is working on, that keeps him awake into the early hours of the morning. Some parts of the melody are achingly familiar, and it’s going to keep Mark up until his alarm if he doesn’t figure it out.

<>I push my fingers into my—

The small sample of vocals cut short and Mark represses a scream. He takes one of his spare pillows, pushing it over his face in an attempt to suffocate himself. He’s done, he’s finally lost it. 

Johnny is working on an EDM remix of a fucking _Slipknot_ song, the night before Mark has an early morning shift. 

Of all the apartment buildings in all of the city, Mark has managed to avoid one without life-threatening mould, while finding the most infuriating neighbour he could possibly imagine. 

He’s thankful for the small mercies, like the fact that he hasn’t overheard Johnny in the middle of sex or something equally as irritating. But as the music starts up again and the rough vocals from a Slipknot song mix with pounding EDM, he has to admit… 

Maybe the mould wouldn’t have been so bad.

\------

Mark has never been the type to have a _woe is me_ outlook on life. He does, however, wonder what he’s done to deserve living next to someone like Johnny. He and his friends are obscenely loud, and seem to have upped their midweek house party schedule to every night. 

He trips over empty bottles in the hallway each morning as he heads off to work, or sees them being put outside as he comes home from the nights he spends painting on the corner. The status of Johnny’s bank account is solidified once he finally spares a glance at the labels on the empty bottles; they’re all top-shelf, the combined total of the empty bottles enough to pay Mark’s rent for a month. 

Stupid, inconsiderate, rich assholes rubbing the zeros on their bank accounts in Mark’s face every time he leaves the house. He trips over their excessive wealth as he struggles to pay his rent on time. 

The most infuriating thing about Johnny is that everyone else in the building seems to adore him. Mark is awoken in the dead of night by the sound of a fire alarm, and the smell of something burning. 

He panics, as does the rest of the building, only managing to grab a thin sweater on his way out the door and down the fire escape stairs. The whole building congregates on the sidewalk and Mark’s bare feet burn as he stands on the frigid concrete. 

Jumping from side to side to avoid prolonged contact with the ground, eventually deciding that his dignity isn’t worth cold feet as he moves to stand in a nearby garden bed, waiting for the fire brigade to arrive and deem the building safe enough to re-enter. 

He hasn’t even had the thought to take his phone with him, so Mark stands in his garden, shivering as he people watches to pass the time. It takes him an embarrassingly short amount of time to notice that Johnny and his posse of bougie buddies have yet to exit the building. 

Mark doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

Okay, so, maybe the small hint of smoke that Mark can see is coming from Johnny’s window and he’s mildly concerned. Because Mark is a good person, and also because Johnny’s apartment is next door to Mark’s. 

Meaning that a potential fire at Johnny’s means a potential spread to Mark’s and he really, _really_ cannot afford to replace his belongings _and_ find a new apartment at this point in time— 

Mark is catastrophizing. 

He’s cold, he’s tired, he’s hungry. Mostly he’s annoyed, because when Johnny and his friends finally emerge from the emergency stairwell, they’re dressed for the weather and laughing like nothing is wrong. 

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep,” Johnny addresses their neighbours with a sheepish grin. “We wanted brownies, but forgot about them once they were in the oven.” 

Mark’s vision shakes in rage, the edges blacking out as his fists curl in anger. He’s missing out on his precious few hours of sleep because Johnny wanted _brownies_.

No one else seems to have the same issue, most of their neighbours laughing in amusement and understanding. Johnny waves in Marks direction once he spots him, and Mark almost feels bad at the way his hand falls, dejectedly, when he’s met with an unimpressed glare. 

The fire department comes and goes, deeming the apartment safe. Mark joins the throng of people as they trudge back into the building, the early hours of dawn peeking through along the horizon. 

Mark refuses to acknowledge Johnny as they stand side by side in the elevator on the way up, and makes a beeline for his front door, ignoring the call of his name as he slips through, still shaking from the residual cold. 

Collapsing back into bed, he checks his phone for the time. Only forty-five minutes until his alarm rings and Mark groans as he resigns himself to a sleepless night. Trying to nap now will just make waking up harder, and he’s been known to sleep through alarms when feeling especially tired. 

Cold and grumpy, Mark shoots off a message to Donghyuck, asking for the largest size of his usual Iced Something for when Donghyuck does his own early morning coffee run. 

He’s left on read. 

(Donghyuck slams the plastic cup in front of a dozing Mark not four hours later, anyway)

\------

Mark has since learnt that his Iced Something’s are in fact called a dirty chai. Made on soy milk because Donghyuck, quote, didn’t know if he was vegan or lactose intolerant or whatever, it’s spicy and filled with caffeine. 

The larger size has more coffee, and apparently, Donghyuck directed his usual barista to double the amount of shots. Meaning that Mark, who is caffeine sensitive at the best of times, is still vibrating by the time he makes it to his usual spot on the corner. 

It’s part coffee, part excitement. He’s been eyeing a gold leafing kit in the store since the moment he walked in and Donghyuck, ever observant, managed to _accidentally_ damage one, writing the product off with a hefty discount for Mark to purchase. 

With his additional staff discount applied on top of it, Mark won’t have to choose between groceries and art supplies for the week. He’s so happy he feels like crying. 

Then again, the extra emotion might be a side effect of the six shots of coffee still rolling around in his stomach. 

He’s never been good with excess caffeine. 

Taking the jitters into consideration, Mark decides to go with his more experimental style this time around. He messes with techniques and gradients, creating more of an abstract shape from paint, rather than the night skies he’s so fond of painting. 

He’s a lot more enthusiastic, too. He chats with the crowd as they gather, and he finds that more people stay when he’s addressing them, instead of ignoring their existence in order to create. He becomes part of the artwork, selling the performance aspect of his job for the first time since he set up on the corner. 

It’s fun. 

He chatters away, idly. He tells jokes. They’re hardly funny, but he earns enough of a polite chuckle from the first row of the crowd that it validates him, anyway. 

The design he has in mind is a section of gradients, coming together to form a three-dimensional cube. He’s stepped out of his usual comfort zone colour palette, trading the usual blacks and blues of his work for the bold pinks and purples that often serve as a highlight, rather than the main focus of his work. 

He plans to build a dark purple outer edge of the resulting cube, and lay a thin line of the gold leaf along the gradient in order to further emphasise the contrast. In his mind, it looks incredible, and the work he’s doing on paper is turning out exactly the way he planned. 

The crowd shifts as he works, and Mark takes no notice as he applies the next stencil to his piece. 

“So this is what you do.” 

Mark breathes in sharply, recognising Johnny’s voice as he crouches next to Mark as he works. 

“Among other things,” he replies. Mark is so sorely tempted to _accidentally_ hit Johnny’s offensively ugly Balenciaga sneakers with a stream of pink paint, but decides against it. 

“Mysterious,” Johnny snickers. Mark brandishes a spray can in his direction, an unspoken warning. 

Mark sighs. “Recent fine arts graduate, current starving artist and paying my bills by working at an art supply store,” he glances in Johnny’s direction. “Mysterious enough for you?” 

“It’s not mysterious anymore,” Johnny points out. Someone at the front of the crowd snickers. Mark picks up his previous threatening can of paint and points it directly at Johnny’s hideous shoes. “Chill,” he laughs, “don’t worry, it’s still really hot.” 

Mark makes a face, a combined grimace of confusion and disgust. Johnny, thankfully, takes the hint and stays silent as Mark continues to work. He doesn’t, however, move from his spot on the ground next to him. 

Johnny inspects the piece closely as Mark works. It’s standard for people to watch intently as he creates, waiting for the final reveal of the piece. But those people are strangers whom Mark doesn’t care for, and Johnny is his neighbour whom he actively dislikes. 

Okay, kinda dislikes. 

Finds mildly annoying. 

Slightly irritating.

Mark casts a glance in Johnny’s direction and receives a smile for his efforts. 

It’s a nice smile.

He notices, and not for the first time, that Johnny is attractive. He’s been denying it for a while, simply refusing to dwell on the thought every time it enters his head. Tall, fluffy hair, cute nose. Under more favourable meetings and circumstances, Mark might have been interested. 

It’s such a shame that Johnny is as insufferable as he is hot. 

“Can you get off my dick and let me work?” Mark huffs. He’s absolutely furious with himself for letting it come off as an offhand joke, rather than the insult he intended to be. “And if you turn that into an innuendo, so help me God I will not hold back.” 

Mark, for the third time in a night, threatens his neighbour with a can of spray paint. 

This isn’t what he thought his life would become.

“Alright, Picasso, I’ll let you finish,” Johnny laughs. He edges out of the firing range, but snags one of Mark’s business cards as he goes. “But just know I’ve got dibs on that painting when you’re done.” 

Mark freezes. He was expecting to live on tips and not sell his piece, as is commonplace when he works. It’s not every day he actually manages to make a sale, especially because of the weather and spray paint’s unfortunate nature of only drying quickly in the heat. 

He also kinda wanted to keep this one for himself. It’s a new style that he wants to explore further, and having the original around to showcase his artistic turning point appeals to his inner romantic artist.

But selling his work, especially to someone like Johnny who can easily afford double his usual charge, is appealing. He can always take a photo for his portfolio and use the extra money for more paint. And that jacket he so desperately needs. Maybe some actual vegetables when he does his groceries, or something. 

“Fine,” Mark relents, laying down the final line of gold leaf accent. “It’s all yours.” 

The crowd, once forgotten, offers a small round of applause as Mark completes his work. Johnny pulls his wallet from the pocket of his coat, and proceeds to dump entirely too much money into Mark’s makeshift tip jar. 

Funny. Mark was intending to rip him off, but now he doesn’t have to feel guilty about it, because Johnny has willingly gone along with it. Mark feels bad for the briefest of seconds, but then he recalls the ease with which Johnny spends excessive amounts of money and figures he won’t miss what's essentially just spare change. 

“Can I walk you home?” Johnny asks, holding Mark’s artwork between his thumb and forefinger as he waits for it to dry. 

“We live in the same apartment building,” Mark points out. He packs his things back into his duffle bag haphazardly, already desperate to be home and in bed. “I can’t stop you from walking with me.” 

“If you don’t want me around, I won’t come with you,” Johnny says. Mark snorts. He’s hardly picked up on any of Mark’s previous hints, so he does think that Johnny is about to start now. 

“I’m just… confused,” he admits after a moment. “You’re like,” he gestures to Johnny, his clothes, those hideously expensive shoes. “And I’m just,” he gestures to himself this time and sighs. “Yeah.” 

“Being broke doesn’t make you any less interesting.” 

Johnny smiles at him, before reaching for Mark’s bag. Ignoring his protests, Johnny hauls the strap over his shoulder and begins the walk towards their apartment. 

“I’m aware of that, thanks,” Mark scoffs, falling into step with Johnny. He was planning on making a run for it, claiming plans with friends, but Johnny has his precious paints held hostage, so Mark doesn’t really have a choice. “It’s just, you think ambition is meaningless, meanwhile that’s my entire personality.” 

Johnny, to his credit, looks ashamed. Mark isn’t sure if its the cold biting at his skin or the embarrassment of his past actions that cause his cheeks to flush pink. “I meant, like, taxes and stuff when I said that. Like, yeah, what’s the point of tax, you know?” 

“To help run the country?” Mark says slowly, in disbelief. Fucking rich kids. “It’s not the concept of tax that upsets people, it’s the breaks and exemptions handed to the people and institutions that can afford it. The system is necessary, it’s just unfairly implemented.” 

Johnny stares at the sidewalk, not daring to speak. Mark is glad that he’s learnt to keep his mouth shut. 

“It’s like,” Mark trails off, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to keep that painting you bought, because it’s a new style for me,” Johnny immediately tries to hand it back, and Mark tells him to keep it. “I need money more than I need that painting,” he says, finally. 

“I’m sorry,” Johnny says, quietly. 

“I don’t think you know what you’re apologising for.” 

Silence falls upon them. 

It doesn’t lift for the rest of the walk home.

\------

Mark is allowed to check his phone on shift. Well, technically he’s not, but the owner is never in and Donghyuck doesn’t care, so Mark spends the better part of his time scrolling through social media. 

Today, he’s pointedly ignoring his phone, despite the fact that it keeps vibrating on the counter. Donghyuck takes a sip of his iced americano and glances at the steady stream of notifications coming through on Mark’s phone. 

“You gonna check that?” he asks, gesturing to the device with his coffee. “You’re pretty popular today.” 

Mark’s spare time at work is usually spent sharing memes with his best friends back home, but today his Instagram is going off, and it’s all Johnny’s fault. 

His art account is listed on his business cards, one of which Johnny is in possession of. His personal is linked in the bio of said art account. Johnny has since followed and tagged both in the video he posted of Mark painting on the sidewalk.

Turns out that it’s not only Johnny’s bank account, but his follower count, that exceeds Mark’s by a couple of zeroes. 

People are following him, people are messaging him and it’s all thanks to Johnny. 

Mark really, _really_ doesn’t want to thank him for anything. 

He tells Donghyuck as such. 

“Yeah, fuck that,” he says, reaching for Mark’s phone and entering the passcode. Funny, Mark doesn’t remember telling him what it was. “From what you said, this guy sounds like a dick.” 

“He’s… interesting?” 

Donghyuck hums as he scrolls through something on Mark’s phone. “Interesting in a serial killer documentary way, or an analysis of Taekook over the years 30 min compilation video kinda way?” 

Mark blinks at him. “I have no idea what kinda scale that is,” he says.

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. 

“Interesting as in you don’t like or condone him or anything he does, but would watch an hour-long special of his life and/or crimes,” Donghyuck starts, pauses, takes a sip from his coffee. The resulting slurp resonates through the empty store. “Or are you more interested than you would ever admit, because said admission is shameful, but internally you’re fascinated and caught up in the conspiracy of it all.” 

“All I’m taking from this is that you’re a tinfoil hat shipper,” Mark says, blankly. Donghyuck balls up a receipt and throws it at him. “But, like, neither. He’s interesting in the way that he’s an idiot who has no idea what he’s saying half the time? It’s equal parts hilarious and infuriating.” 

“Ahh,” Donghyuck hums, still scrolling through Mark’s phone. He has no idea what Donghyuck is doing, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to know. “So he’s like, monkey in a zoo levels of interesting, I see.” 

“You have terrible analogies.” 

“And your dumbass rich boy is fucking _hot_ ,” Donghyuck counters, flipping Mark’s phone to show what’s on the screen. It’s a thirst trap of Johnny at the gym. Mark chokes on his iced chai. 

“I mean, yeah, but he’s also…” Mark waves his hands around in emphasis. “You know?” 

“A hypebeast with more money than both sense and style, and his Instagram captions look like they’re from an autogenerated positivity bot?” 

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow, taking another loud sip from his drink. 

“Yeah, that.” 

“When the revolution comes, I say we eat him first,” Donghyuck jumps down from the bench, wandering through the store in search of a trash can. “Also I did you the favour of following both me and this Johnny dude from your accounts. Both of them.” 

“Okay, so, questions,” Mark holds three fingers in the air. “One, why are we eating him first when Jeff Bezos exists?” 

“Easy access,” Donghyuck informs him. “Next question.” 

“Why did you make me follow you, I see your face every day and I have your phone number. I don’t super need your Instagram account.” 

“You might miss my face when we’re not together, I hate texting and prefer Instagram DMs and I need an account to tag when you take me out for Thai tonight,” Donghyuck ticks everything off on his fingers. Mark opens his mouth to argue, but he’s promptly cut off. “You owe me for coffee and you just got tips from a rich boy.” 

“Speaking of, why am I now following him on Instagram?” 

“Because, my love,” Donghyuck pats him on the back as he passes by. “It’s hilarious to watch you suffer.” 

\------ 

Mark’s house is covered in a double layer of drop sheets. It’s because he likes to work on projects at home, lacks a balcony (the person with the other side of his apartment got that little perk, and apparently pays more because of it) and Mark just cannot afford to remove paint stains from the floors. 

The building’s central heating is godawful and barely works, but the vent is in the lounge, so Mark isn’t quite as cold as he experiments with his new style, using up the last of his gold leaf. Reaching blindly for his phone, he shoots a message to Donghyuck requesting for another pack to receive _mysterious damages_ next time they work together. 

Donghyuck’s response is almost immediate, and comprised of exactly five thumbs up emojis. 

Admittedly, Mark is really just fucking around at this point, making nothing serious and relishing in the freedom of a creative process that goes unseen by strangers for the first time in months. He’s got his downloaded Spotify playlist blasting in the background and no one there to judge Mark as he sings along while he paints. 

That is, until there’s a knock at the door. 

Mark sighs in annoyance, because there could really be no one else visiting him at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night. 

The first door of Mark’s apartment still hasn’t been fixed, propped open by a brick with the fragment of Mark’s key still lodged firmly into the lock. His landlord says he’s getting around to it, but Mark thinks he’s just putting it off until Mark and his shared neighbour forget about it. 

This means that the _real_ , second door to Mark’s house is easy to access from the outside, and it absolutely means that Johnny has taken advantage of it. 

“What do you want?” 

Mark yanks the door open and finds his neighbour sheepishly holding a bag of takeout in front of him. Mark recognises the logo as some fancy vegan restaurant nearby, one with food that always smells amazing but is far too expensive for Mark’s budget. 

“I ordered double,” Johnny says, shaking the recyclable plastic bag in his hands. “Accidentally, of course. An error on the app.” 

“What’s it got to do with me?” Mark sighs, wiping his paint-covered hands on his equally as paint-covered pants. 

“Want some dinner?” Johnny smiles at him, once again shaking the bag of food. The smell wafts towards Mark and he’s ashamed to admit how interested he is. “You could, like, come over and we could watch something? Eat some vegan nachos?” 

“Fine,” Mark huffs. He’s thinking with his stomach and not with his head. It’s been so long since he’s had takeout, and admittedly he’s missed it. “But I’ve got work tomorrow, so I can’t stay long.”

He grabs his keys from the hook, closing and locking his door behind him as he steps into the hallway. It’s a habit rather than a precaution— anyone broke enough to want to steal from him obviously needs the money more than Mark does. 

Johnny, on the other hand, has a lovely apartment. The compliments for his interior decoration lie on the tip of Mark’s tongue, and it’s pure pettiness that keeps them from spilling out into the open. 

Monochrome furnishings that are modern without being cold and uninviting, paired with a multicoloured array of kitsch nic-nacks that line the multitude of shelves along the walls. An open plan kitchen with a solid marble bench, with the fluffiest, most vibrantly pink rug Mark has ever seen lying on the lounge floor. 

It’s eclectic and fun, reminiscent of an art gallery gift shop in the vast array of colours and themes. 

Mark’s painting has been framed and hung over the back of a very large sofa. 

It looks good, it fits with the theme and the frame looks to be good quality and expensive.

(Mark eyes it fondly but refuses to comment)

“Welcome,” Johnny says, swinging his long arms around wildly. He almost hits Mark with the takeout bag. “And like, anytime. I mean it.” 

“Thanks,” Mark says. He’s ushered towards the couch, but sits on the floor instead. He runs his hands through the fibres of the rug, tangling the strands between his fingers. 

“You want something to drink?” Johnny asks, fretting as he steps over Mark on the way to the kitchen. He seems antsy for some reason. Mark doesn’t ask, nor comment. “Non-alcoholic, I don’t think you wanna be hungover for work.” 

“Doesn’t stop my coworker,” Mark shrugs. Johnny raises an eyebrow. “It’s only the two of us, so it doesn’t really matter how I turn up for work.” 

“So, wine?” Johnny holds up a bottle he’s pulled from the fridge. Mark doesn’t recognise the brand, so he shrugs in response. 

Honestly, he’s never really been a wine drinker, the only experiences he’s had being the cheap shit he drank during university, and that one time Chris’ parents brought him something expensive over from Australia. 

Neither of which were very pleasant and both of them resulting in bad decisions and a massive hangover. 

Mark just hopes that his third wine experience doesn’t end in a hat trick of regret. 

“Um,” Johnny starts, handing Mark a glass and stepping over him in order to access the couch. “I don’t know about you, but I kinda felt like watching Avatar tonight? The Last Airbender,” he clarifies, “not the blue people movie.” 

“You think I’m into Avatar because I’m a former art student and it’s an animated series?” Mark deadpans. He takes a sip of his (surprisingly tasty) wine while Johnny splutters. “You’re right, by the way. I like it.” 

Johnny sighs in relief. 

Funny how he’s trying so hard not to offend Mark over his television preferences, when all he’s been doing is offend Mark about everything else they’ve ever spoken about. 

Johnny turns out to be fairly decent company when not trying to be fake deep. As they’ve both seen Avatar more times than they can count, they don’t really watch anything in sequence, just picking their favourite episodes and quoting the most memorable lines to each other over glasses of wine. 

“To good food, good company and good cartoons!” Johnny offers a toast to their fourth glass of the evening. The bottle is empty, but another one has been pulled from seemingly nowhere and placed on the coffee table. 

Mark has somehow made his way from the floor to the sofa, where he notices that the proximity between the two of them shrinks with every glass they drink. Sober Mark would be horrified, but wine drunk Mark is filled with the best nachos he’s ever eaten and half a bottle of wine, so he’s somewhat content. 

He barely flinches when Johnny wraps an arm around his shoulder during the Ember Island Players episode. Mark is confused, sure, but he’s also tipsy and touch starved so he listens to his inner voice and leans into the embrace. 

Johnny smells good, is warmer than even though Johnny’s apartment has it’s own heating system. He’s funny, too, once both their inhibitions drop, the fog of the alcohol making everything so much funnier. 

At some point, the series remains forgotten in the background as they talk shit about everything and nothing, with Mark’s leg slowly coming to drape over Johnny’s thigh as they swap ghost stories. 

“God, that’s fucking terrifying,” Mark whines, collapsing onto Johnny’s chest and gripping at his shirt. He’s just been told about the one time a spirit board decided to spell out Johnny’s mother’s name, and the subsequent freak out afterwards. 

“Yeah,” Johnny replies. He wraps his arms around Mark’s shoulders, one hand playing with his hair. “Ten— the guy running it— closed that shit up ASAP once he realised.” 

“Glad everything turned out okay,” Mark mumbles. The wine has done nothing but make him drunk and sleepy. He’s happy he had the foresight to send Donghyuck a message earlier. 

Most likely an incomprehensible babble of letters, he’s certain he sounded drunk enough to get his point across. 

Johnny hums, still fiddling with Mark’s hair. Contrary to what Mark tries to tell himself, the position they’ve found themselves in is rather suggestive. Close contact, hands in places that border on the line between platonic and not. 

“Mark,” Johnny breathes. He’s drunk. They both are. 

Mark doesn’t care. 

He’ll regret it in the morning, the way he cups Johnny’s cheek and angles their faces together in a kiss. He’ll look back on the moment in shame as he remembers how desperate he seems, how his hands can’t stop tracing the lines of Johnny’s body.

Mark will try and forget the way he’s pushed back onto the sofa, how he wraps his legs around Johnny’s hips. The tight grip he has on the back of Johnny’s shirt and the sounds he makes as lips trail down his neck is something he’ll push to the back of his mind. 

The hickies on his neck will remain, however. They’ll stay painted on his skin long enough for Mark to remember his terrible decisions for days to come. 

But as Johnny’s hand beneath his shirt, Mark decides. 

Whatever the consequences may be, they’re a problem for the Mark of tomorrow.

\------

“There’s my little drunk idiot,” Donghyuck coos. 

Mark stumbles into work two hours late, the apologies on his tongue rejected before he can even get them out. 

“It’s fine,” Donghyuck waves him off. “We’ve all done it. I’ll even tell the boss you arrived on time, so you don’t lose part of your paycheck.” 

Collapsing onto the stool behind the counter, Mark groans as he buries his head in his hands. 

“What did I do to deserve you?” he asks. Donghyuck pats him on the neck. 

“Don’t count your blessings too soon,” he chides, poking at one of the marks. “I fully intend to mock you for your drunk messages _and_ the fact that you got on rich boy dick last night.” 

“No dick, only made out,” Mark mumbles into his arm. He’s hiding, both from the world and from his shame. “He bought me with vegan nachos and a bottle of wine, I feel so cheap.” 

“You’re such an expensive date,” Donghyuck scoffs, “Put out after a cup of coffee like the rest of us.”

“I’d rather not put out at all,” Mark groans. “Why am I such a fucking idiot?” 

“You’re lonely, horny and a hot dude is into you?” 

Mark glares at him over his arms. 

“Yes, he’s bougie scum and we’ll personally march him to the guillotine, but use it while you can, I guess,” Donghyuck shrugs. 

“It feels like pity,” Mark voices his inner insecurities aloud. “Like, the money, the shout outs, the fact that he absolutely didn’t order double on accident.” Mark breathes in through his nose and buries his head back into his arms. “I feel like a charity case, or like, a pet.” 

“Showing off how nice he is with all his money,” Donghyuck nods along. “But,” he jumps up onto the counter, sitting cross-legged in front of Mark’s hunched form. “Maybe you should like, go with it? Use him for free shit while he uses you for rich boy bragging rights.” 

“I don’t wanna be a sugar baby,” Mark whines. “Sex work is a difficult field that I greatly respect, but don’t feel I have the ability to do myself.” 

“He’s cute, he’s talented, he respects sex workers,” Donghyuck fakes a swoon. “You’re such a catch, baby, no wonder the bougie bastard is into you.” 

“You have a boyfriend, and I’ve seen you commenting _goals_ on Johnny’s Instagram posts,” Mark points out. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him reply to you. He knows we know each other.” 

“My boyfriend is also cute, talented and respectful,” Donghyuck points out. He’s not wrong, Jeno is an absolute sweetheart who works at a clothing chain within the same mall. He brings them both lunch sometimes. Mark thinks he’s cool. “Also, I’m winning him over so he trusts me, and when we rise he won’t see my betrayal coming.” 

“Just say you want his wardrobe, I won’t judge you.” 

“I have better taste than Vetements, I want his bank account, instead.” 

Mark laughs, his stomach rolls. “God, I’m gonna eat my weight’s worth in fries on my lunch break,” he says. 

That little purchase will take his bus money, so he’ll have to walk halfway home. Either that, or he can just skip the train fare, ride illegally, and save money that way. God, he would also kill for Johnny’s bank account. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Donghyuck nods, but he’s got an evil glint in his eye that spells bad news. “Get your strength back, we’ve gotta do stocktake this afternoon.” 

Mark groans aloud. 

“I wish I called in sick,” he says.

\------

Mark sells a piece to someone who isn’t Johnny. 

It’s such a wonderful feeling that he all but skips home early, ready to get a good night’s sleep for the first time in a long time. He can practically smell his sheets (freshly washed, the best feeling in the world) when he runs into Johnny as he enters the elevator. 

They haven’t seen, nor spoken to each other since their wine night a week prior. Johnny still likes whatever Mark posts on either of his Instagram accounts, but that’s pretty par for the course. No DMs, no more later night food deliveries, no sporadic meetings while Mark works, even though Johnny knows exactly where he sets up. 

He doesn’t know what to think about it. A one-time attempt that went wrong because nothing really happened? Or something that Johnny views with as much regret as Mark does? His expression gives nothing away as their eyes meet— he seems slightly shocked to see Mark, but nothing else. 

“Hey,” he says, awkwardly. He’s dressed up, ready to go out. “I haven’t seen you around?” 

“Been busy,” Mark shrugs. The elevator door closes behind Johnny, and Mark now has to wait in the tense atmosphere as he waits for it to return to the ground floor. “Work and all that, you know?”

“Ahh, yeah,” Johnny nods in understanding. What Mark assumes to be understanding. Johnny has Daddy’s Money and hasn’t worked a day in his life. “I’m, uh, actually heading off to work, now.” 

Scratch that. 

“ _You_ have a job?” Mark laughs. Fragments of drunken memories reveal the source of Johnny’s fortune, big shot dentist power couple parents who want to see their only child enjoy his inheritance while they’re still around. He has no need for work and never will. 

“I, uh, DJ,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “I like music, it’s fun.” 

“Thought dreams were stupid, though?” Mark jabs. It has less bite than he intended. 

“Shut up,” Johnny groans, and the tension is broken. “Okay, yes, I have small ambitions and artistic hobbies, so sue me.” 

“How much money will I get if I do?” Mark replies. It sounds like something Donghyuck will say. They’ve been spending entirely too much time together. 

Johnny laughs, before checking the time on his watch.”Wanna come with?” he asks. “Friends of the DJ drink free.” 

His offer sounds so genuine, and Mark’s good night deserves a celebration. 

“Why the fuck not,” he shrugs, “just let me put my shit away and get changed or something.” 

“You look fine.” 

“I’m covered in paint.” 

“Some of us find the whole,” Johnny waves his hand around, “artist aesthetic hot.” 

“Shut up,” Mark grumbles. “Also you’re paying for the Uber.” 

Johnny holds up his phone, showing that a car has already been booked and is on the way. 

“God, I hate rich people,” Mark mumbles to himself as the elevator finally arrives. 

He hates how little he means it, this time.

\------

Yuta, bartender extraordinaire and good friend of Johnny’s. He’s heard a lot about Mark, is happy to finally meet him and no, he won’t get in trouble for slipping him free drinks, he’s the owner. 

“Unlike Johnny,” he snickers, “I had to work for this, and I’ll be paying this place off until I die.” 

Mark immediately reaches into his pocket for some cash. “Keep it,” Yuta reaches over the bar to ruffle Mark’s hair. “A couple of drinks won’t put me under, it’s fine.” 

“Speaking of,” Mark holds up his sweet, purple drink, “what the hell is this?” 

“Chambord and lemonade, a personal favourite,” Yuta winks, “it’s not super strong, so if you wanna do shots or something later, then let me know.” 

Overcome with memories of the last time he was drunk in Johnny’s presence, Mark flushes. “I’m good,” he says. “Thanks, though.” 

“Offer’s there,” Yuta says with a wave, before he sneaks back off to do his job. 

Mark sits by himself at the bar, taking sips and messaging Donghyuck while he waits for Johnny’s set to start. 

Bored, he films a few seconds of the dance floor and posts it as his story. He captions it with “introvert goes to bar, what happens next will shock you” and tags Johnny. 

Donghyuck replies with exactly seven crying laughing emojis. 

Yuta comes by from time to time in order to refresh Mark’s drink. The alcohol content may be low, but he hasn’t eaten all day. The drinks hit him harder than expected, so when he’s offered a chance to hang out in the DJ’s booth with Johnny, he accepts. 

He’s not famous, the patrons barely noticing as the last DJ steps out and Johnny steps in. A few people come by now and again to dance in front of him, and Johnny himself bobs to the music as he works. Mark, on the other hand, stands awkwardly to the side, barely moving. 

Donghyuck receives a few panicked messages and blurry selfies of Mark, responded to with more choice emojis. The picture of Johnny behind the booth is met with a single eggplant, and Mark locks his phone with a scowl. 

Johnny manages to catch his eye at that moment, gesturing for Mark to join him. With nothing better to do, Mark downs the rest of his drunk and awkwardly slides up beside Johnny as he works behind his equipment. 

“Dance with me,” Johnny yells into his ear, trying to talk over the music. He wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder as they awkwardly move together, giggling at each other whenever their gazes meet. 

Johnny’s free hand returns to his soundboard, and the song changes. Slowly, Mark lets go and begins to dance in earnest, actually enjoying himself when Johnny grabs his hips and begins to rock against him. 

It should be sexy, but it’s not. It’s just fun, could barely even be called grinding. They spend most of their time laughing, enjoying themselves, breaking away when Johnny has something to do for his set and getting right back to it. 

Loose and tipsy but still in control, Mark wraps his arms around Johnny’s neck as they dance, is practically sober when Johnny kisses him for the second time, right there in the DJ booth. It garners a few cheers from the few patrons who spot them, and Johnny smiles into the next kiss that Mark presses to his lips.

Johnny holds his hand during the Uber ride home. He doesn’t let go as they take the elevator to the third floor. He presses Mark into his front door, kissing him deeply and whispering “good night” as he lets go. 

Mark wants to blame it all on the alcohol, but he can’t. 

Hours have passed since his last drink, and he’s stone-cold sober.

\------

Johnny becomes somewhat of a constant in Mark’s life. He’s still annoyingly rich with some strange opinions that sound like regurgitated Tumblr posts from the early 2010’s, but he’s nice enough. 

He drops by with accidental extra food every now and again. He invites Mark to watch him work, understanding when Mark replies that while fun, it’s not exactly his scene. Sometimes he kisses Mark, sometimes he doesn’t. 

It’s all very strange, and Mark doesn’t know what it means. 

Donghyuck has stopped mocking Mark whenever he turns up on Johnny’s Instagram feed, instead shooting him concerned glances when he thinks Mark isn’t looking. 

“You’re kinda dating,” he says, one day. 

He doesn’t bring it up again, not after Mark’s reaction. 

The truth is, Mark doesn’t know what they are. He doesn’t want to address whatever feelings remain undiscussed between them, hanging in the air whenever they’re together. He wants to hate Johnny, because he’s still hosting house parties on a Tuesday and leaving bottles out for Mark to trip over on a Wednesday. 

But Johnny also cuts the noise at an appropriate time when Mark mentions an offhand complaint, and buys a fancy trash can for his opulent garbage when he finds Mark sprawled out on the hallway floor after a misplaced champagne bottle and Mark’s foot have an unfortunate run-in. 

He’s confusing. 

Mark doesn’t really have the time to figure him out.

\------

Johnny comes to him one night, armed with fancy, authentic pizza a YouTube channel and an idea. 

“You work with spray paint, yeah?” 

Mark fixes him with a look. He’s seen Mark work, he has one of his pieces framed in his lounge room. Of course Johnny knows about Mark’s preferred medium. 

“Of all the stupid shit you’ve said to me,” Mark says slowly. “I think this takes the cake.” 

“Sorry,” Johnny flushes. He pulls up a video on his phone, showing someone custom dipping a pair of Nikes. They look cool and Mark can gather the technique from watching him work. 

“It’s cool,” he says. Johnny looks at him expectantly. “What? We use the same kind of paint— well, not really, that’s gotta be oil-based so it doesn’t mix with the water— but yeah, different kinda art.”

Mark shrugs. 

“Think you could do something like this?” 

Johnny’s question comes out of nowhere, and feels like an insult. It happens a lot, people who befriend him in order to get free art out of him. A commonplace practice, especially during university. 

He only really associated with fellow fine arts students and people that Chris said were cool. 

Mark has been wondering what Johnny’s deal could possibly be, and it turns out he’s found it. 

“I’ll pay,” Johnny hurries to mention. “I found the rates for the dude in the video I showed you, and I’ll match it.” 

“You’ve been doing your research, I see,” Mark replies, blankly. His neutral expression doesn’t change, even when Johnny reveals several pairs of Air Force 1’s ready to be painted. 

“Some extras, for practice,” he says. His usual displays of wealth have become more of an endearing quality than anything else, but the sight of multiple boxes of expensive shoes just turns Mark’s stomach. 

“Sure, I guess,” he says. Johnny looks elated. “I’ll do it.” 

He leaves pretty quickly after that, claiming an early shift and a fake eagerness for research into a new technique. He’s told to take his time, and given a hand in carrying the shoes back into his apartment. 

Johnny goes in for a kiss once they’re sitting innocently amongst Mark’s drop sheets. 

He’s met with a door slammed in his face. 

\------ 

“Gross,” Donghyuck says through a mouthful of food. Jeno has been and gone, leaving far too many fries in his wake. Mark is unbearably jealous of their relationship, as much as he hates to admit it. “But you’re still doing it? You’re gonna do the shoes?”

“Yeah,” Mark sighs in resignation. He’s got a collection of oil-based spray paint sitting on the counter, ready to be bought and experimented with. “He said he’s gonna pay me hella bank, and I can’t turn that kinda offer down.” 

“At least he’s paying,” Donghyuck replies, and Mark shares his sentiments. “Like, he’s pulling a dick move with this, but at least he’s not asking for it for free.” 

“I’d have hit him if he did.” 

“No you wouldn’t.” 

“You’re right, I have no idea how to punch.” 

Donghyuck laughs. Mark’s spirits lift, just slightly. 

“I kinda liked him,” Mark admits. 

“That much was obvious,” Donghyuck snorts, shovelling more fries into his mouth. They must be cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice, nor care. “I’m sorry your first big city crush turned out to be a dumbass.”

“Yeah,” Mark says, bagging up his purchase. He’s noticed that Donghyuck pointedly hasn’t rung up the more expensive cans, and for that he’s thankful. “So am I.” 

\-------

Mark hates how much he enjoys the process of custom dipping. He experiments on random shit he finds around the house, winds up with an awesome looking phone case that he’s immediately complimented on. 

The first set of shoes are a disaster, but he learns from his mistakes. He’s determined to get good at the craft, even abandoning the streets in order to perfect it. Equal parts stubborn ambition and an unwillingness to sit out on the streets as winter deepens, Mark spends most of his nights over a tub of water and paint. 

He makes a pattern he likes, dips the shoes through and twists the excess off like he’s seen the professionals do in the videos. They look incredible, and the application of a custom stencil completes it. 

A shot of sealant and they’re left to dry overnight, ready to be delivered to Johnny’s doorstep the next morning. 

Mark still feels grumpy and used, but it’s mixed with the feeling of accomplishment and the indescribable, incomparable joy of actually liking something he’s created. 

The finished product gets left outside of Johnny’s door before Mark leaves for work. No note, no message, no knock against wood to reveal them. 

This is what Johnny wanted, Mark supposes. 

There’s no reason for them to talk, now that they’re done.

\-------

For once, work is busy. 

Mark serves more than three people in a day and shares a confused look with Donghyuck as they actually spend money. He’s asked for art advice and groans as he counts the 2B pencils for the stocktake they’ve been ignoring for far too long. 

He’s actually _working_ , which is strange as hell, and yet a welcome distraction. 

“Okay, new plan,” Donghyuck says. He’s sat cross-legged next to Mark in the pencil aisle, counting alongside him. “How about we just fake the numbers and then do nothing for the rest of the day?” 

“Sounds like a great plan,” Mark agrees. He should be concerned with his coworker’s lack of professionalism, but the store isn’t too high on the owner’s list of priorities. “Means we can hide the loss of that paint you didn’t charge me for.”

“Best idea we’ve ever had,” he stands up stretching as he does so. “I’m gonna take a smoke break and do a coffee run, then we can scam the boss when I’m back.” 

“Perfect,” Mark nods. “My phone has been blowing up all morning, I’m kinda curious about it, if I’m honest.” 

“Johnny’s seen the shoes, I’m guessing,” Donghyuck shrugs. He’s probably right. The sporadic messages he’s been getting all day could either mean he loves them or hates them. 

Mark is terrified, either way. 

He watches Donghyuck skip from the store, phone in hand and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Mark puts off checking his phone for as long as physically possible, before the anticipation gets the best of him. 

Johnny has sent him exactly one message. 

_I love them_

The rest of Mark’s notifications are a mess. Countless DMs, a shocking amount of new followers. Johnny has tagged him in a story _and_ in a post. He ignores the strangers and goes straight to Johnny’s posts, curiously. 

His story is just showing the shoes off from different angles, and a few shots of them worn. 

The post, on the other hand, is enough to make Mark double take. 

He was expecting Johnny’s usual pseudo-motivational bullshit and unironic emoji usage. 

What he gets is a three-paragraph confession.

The shock has Mark’s hands shaking as he reads and re-reads the post over and over again. It’s not a public declaration of love, Johnny is at least considerate enough to save him the pressure of a public confession. 

But it is a re-telling of their timeline from Johnny’s point of view, and Mark has to admit that he’s been reading a lot of things wrong. 

Donghyuck, too, seems to have seen the post, because he’s commented his customary laughing emojis and sent Mark a message with an actual word this time. 

_oops_ , it reads. 

Mark couldn’t have summed it up better himself.

\------

“You’re a coward,” Donghyuck tells him, exactly one week later. 

Mark has still yet to confront Johnny. 

Not to say there hasn’t been an attempt, but Mark has been ignoring his messages and the knocks on his door since the day of his Instagram post. 

“I know,” Mark says, “I just wanna avoid the confrontation until I can, is all.” 

“There is no confrontation,” Donghyuck says. He’s annoyed with Mark, because he charges him for each can of paint this time. “He’s head over heels for you, and you feel the same. Get together and then join me and Jeno on a double date,” Donghyuck slams his purchase onto the bench. “Johnny’s got enough cash to cover a fancy dinner for all of us.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Mark explains. Talking to Johnny means explaining his misconceptions and insecurities, and Mark refuses to be both wrong and weak at the same time. He’d rather avoid Johnny than face up to that. 

“A coward _and_ a stubborn idiot,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “What a catch.” 

“Keep going and I won’t finish your shoes,” Mark threatens. He does custom dipped shoes, now, a commission service he’s still trying to figure out. Johnny’s little shout out has him inundated with requests. 

Painting shoes for a living isn’t what he thought he’d be doing when he moved those few months ago, but at least he’s enjoying it.

He has Johnny to thank for it, though. 

And that’s something he just doesn’t want to think about.

\------

Winter should be ending, but it’s clinging on for dear life, refusing to make way for spring. It’s still freezing outside, and the heating of Mark’s apartment building still sucks. He’s got a whole night of commissions to work on when he gets home, and he’s not looking forward to dipping his arms into water and back out into the cold. 

Mark approaches the front door of his apartment and spots a notice crudely taped at eye height on the glass. 

_HEATER’S BROKEN, FEND FOR YOURSELVES_

The note is obviously from a tenant and not from management, who are notoriously bad at addressing issues within the building. Mark remembers a story Johnny once told, where the elevator remained broken for close to a month before it was finally fixed. 

“Perfect,” Mark mumbles. “Exactly what I needed.” 

It’s getting dark out, the coldest part of the day slowly creeping in. He makes the executive decision to gather every vaguely warm thing he owns and form a cocoon on his bed to wait out the night. 

If worst comes to worst, he can call in a favour with Taemin and Jongin, or even Donghyuck if things get too bad. Mark is midway through his cocoon creation process when there’s a knock on his door. 

He knows what it means. 

Now or never. 

“Hey,” he says, opening the door and revealing a forlorn-looking Johnny. 

“I, uh, saw the sign downstairs,” he replies. He shifts from foot to foot, awkwardly. He’s so tall, but in the moment, he looks so small. “I wanted to see if you’re okay?” 

“I’ve got blankets and a backup plan,” Mark replies. He hates how awkward it is, and how he can’t find the courage to address it. Donghyuck is right, he is a coward. “Thanks, though, for checking up on me.” 

“Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, so this offer isn’t like, out of expectation or whatever—” 

“—you didn’t,” Mark interrupts. “Make me uncomfortable. With the post? That’s what you're, uh, talking about? Right?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Johnny says, “I mean, you kinda ghosted me afterwards so I thought that— nevermind. I’m here because the heating is broken, it’s gonna be fucking cold later and I have my own heater.” 

“We should probably, like, talk or something, I guess,” Mark says after a moment. “So if you’ll have me, I’d like to stay the night?” 

“Talk, yeah, we should do that,” Johnny says. He looks almost hopeful. Mark can’t hide his smile. “I’d love that.”

\------

Johnny meets a boy and is immediately enamoured. He sees the paint stains on his clothes and assumes this artistic soul likes deep, meaningful and like-minded people. He proceeds to make an absolute fool of himself, talking out of his ass during a very unsuccessful attempt at wooing him. 

“Yeah, you fucked that one up,” Mark snickers. 

“Shut up,” Johnny throws a pillow at him. “Let me finish my story.” 

He thinks that the cute boy might like parties, so Johnny invites him to one. He holds them more frequently, hoping that one day there might be a knock on the door and that we’ll join in. 

He doesn’t. 

Johnny tries not to let it get to him. 

The boy is awfully closed off, but Johnny is very interested. He backs off at signs of rejection, because his mother raised a polite boy, but he’s never properly told to go away. At least, Johnny thinks to himself, he might be able to make a friend. 

Sometimes, Johnny buys the boy food. Faking an accidental double order—

“—I fucking _knew_ it!”

“Mark!” 

— and because Johnny doesn’t know his dietary requirements, he orders vegan food the first time around. He doesn’t wanna be that asshole offering meat to someone who doesn’t eat it. That would be embarrassing. 

Johnny’s love language is gifts. It’s a byproduct of growing up with money. Seeing people enjoy things that he’s bought for them, or seeing them happily spend cash he’s passed on, it brings him joy, and shows he cares. 

“So I wasn’t taking pity on you,” he says pointedly. Mark shrinks back into the couch in embarrassment. “I was hitting on you.”

“Yeah, well, I know that _now_ ,” he mutters. 

Johnny falls pretty quickly. Cute, smart, talented. Driven and hardworking. The cute boy has amazing taste in everything, including cartoons. Johnny tells anyone who will listen about this boy named Mark, and how much Johnny likes him. 

He even gets a chance to kiss him a few times. Johnny practically floats for the days following. He wants to kiss Mark more often, but he doesn’t want to push anything, because while occasionally receptive, he’s still guarded.

Johnny buys his art, commissions more. It’s an equal parts a genuine love for his work, and Johnny’s growing affection for the artist behind them. Having something that Mark made makes him feel happy. 

He hopes the payment he gives in return makes Mark happy, too. 

“You fed me for weeks,” Mark says. He’s careful as he approaches Johnny, taking hold of his hand. Lacing their fingers together, he presses a kiss to Johnny’s cheek. “Thank you.” 

Johnny thinks they could be something real. Something wonderful. He thinks that the big L word could be on the horizon. He’s so, unbelievably smitten. 

He doesn’t know if Mark feels the same. 

So he tests the waters. 

He doesn’t outright confess in a public post, but he puts in enough _my life changed when I met you_ ’s and _you mean more to me than I could ever say_ ’s to get it across, while also being easily written off as bromance. 

Johnny really, really likes this boy. 

“—yes, you’ve mentioned that—” 

“—Please let me finish telling my story?” Johnny huffs. “Please?” 

“Fine,” Mark says. “I know the ending, though, so, is it really worth finishing like this?” 

“I want to know if you feel the same,” Johnny relents. He looks so vulnerable, yet hopeful.

It’s what Mark has been expecting the whole time, and he thought he was being very obvious. Turns out they both need to work on their communication, and it’s a change Mark promises to make immediately. 

“I feel the same,” he says. 

Mark has barely enough time to brace himself as he’s tackled to the floor, crushed beneath Johnny’s weight as they hit the ground. The room is warm, thanks to Johnny’s personal heater, but the heat of Johnny’s embrace is the most comfortable part of it all. 

“Okay, so,” Johnny mumbles into the skin of his neck. It tickles. Mark laughs, because the sensation paired with the joy in his heart is just too much to bear. “I have a plan for tonight.” 

“Hit me.” 

“Only if you’re into that,” Johnny lifts his head, winks. Mark hits the heel of his foot against Johnny’s calf in retaliation. 

“The plan, Johnny,” Mark says. He kisses Johnny’s temple, because he’s allowed to do that, now. Well, he’s always been allowed to do that, he supposes. But it’s the first time he’s given himself permission.

It’s oddly freeing. 

“We move the heater to my room, we watch random shit while being very warm, at some point we make out a little.” 

“Amazing plan,” Mark nods. He taps Johnny’s chin, making him look up. “I’ve got one thing to change, though.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Make out now, move things later.” 

Johnny bites his lip while glancing at Mark’s. “Yeah, I like the sound of that.” 

Mark wraps his arms around Johnny’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. 

The heater doesn’t get moved until much later on, and the cartoons they pick to watch in the background remain ignored. 

But Mark doesn’t mind. 

He doesn’t mind at all.

\------

“There is sleet outside,” Donghyuck mutters. He’s back from a smoke break looking wet and cold. Mark laughs at him and is met with a choice gesture. “Fucking _sleet_. It’s supposed to be spring by now, and we’ve got _sleet_.” 

“Don’t you have to take the train home?” Mark points out, sipping at his chai. Hot this time. It’s just too fucking cold outside. 

“You take the train, and a bus,” Donghyuck replies, shaking his wet hair and spraying Mark with the droplets. “Sucks to suck, nerd.” 

“Not today, I’ve got a ride.” 

Mark raises an eyebrow. 

Donghyuck mirrors the expression, expectantly. 

“Who’s picking you up, huh?” 

“My boyfriend,” Mark grins. 

Donghyuck screeches. 

“What about Johnny? You’ve moved on super quick, that’s almost impressive.” 

“What about me?” 

Johnny’s timing is impeccable, he saunters into the store, making a beeline for Mark at the counter. “Hey,” he says, ignoring Donghyuck’s muttering of _what the fuck_ in the background. “You ready to go?” 

“We close in half an hour, so maybe give me forty-five minutes?” 

“I’ll grab dinner,” Johnny says, pressing a quick kiss to Mark’s mouth over the counter. 

“You got the daddy’s money dick?” Donghyuck slides up next to Mark, nearly knocking him off balance. “And you didn’t tell me?” he points at Mark, then to Johnny. “And _you_ haven’t been posting cute couple pictures on Instagram?” 

“Recent development,” Johnny replies. 

“Also I thought this would be a way funnier way of telling you,” Mark adds. 

“Whatever, class traitor,” Donghyuck mumbles. “Break his heart and I’ll lead you to the guillotine myself.” 

Johnny looks politely confused, but promises against broken hearts, anyway. 

“Good,” Donghyuck nods, satisfied. “And where are you thinking of going for takeout? I’ll put my order in if you’re paying.” 

Mark sighs.

Johnny laughs and takes it all in his stride. 

With another kiss, Johnny makes his exit, and Mark fondly watches him go. 

His life in the big city isn’t exactly what he expected. 

But now, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> If you get the reference in the title we're legally obligated to be best friends, I don't make the rules.


End file.
